Awfully Artful Arthur or should that be Clever Cunning Cerdic?

by Geoff Boxell

  Chapter 2: It’s the Real Thing

  ‘Here you are son; just don’t tell your mum.’ Mr White passed Jamie a disposable plastic pint “glass” of farmhouse cider. ‘She has never approved of underage drinking, even when we were courting and it was her that was underage.’

  ‘Thanks Dad.’ Jamie took a sip of the drink and screwed up an eye when the sharp taste hit his tongue.

  ‘Not as sweet as that made by the big companies, eh.’ Jamie’s dad licked his lips then downed half his pint in one go. ‘Owww; that is good.’

  Jamie took another discreet sip. ‘Not your first of the day then Dad?’

  ‘I had a couple whilst waiting for you to come down from the “living history” camp, son. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the first battle, but I am here now – I had to drop Mum off in Hastings’ town centre.’

  Jamie took another sip and looked around from their position in the roped-off spectator area where they stood overlooking the battlefield. Rubbish blew around the feet of the food and drink vendors as they started to either pack up their sites or at least reduce each site’s size to match the fact that the spectator area now only sported a small crowd made up of camp followers and re-enactor’s families and not the general public who had packed the area the day before. ‘Mum didn’t want to come then?’

  Mr White shook his head whilst still sipping his cider.

  ‘Too violent for her?’

  ‘Not really, though she still can’t understand your fascination for re-enacting and fighting. It is more the chance for her to go shopping.’

  ‘But most of the shops in Hastings are the same as at home.’

  Mr White gave a loud snort, which woke the black whippet who had been asleep with his head resting on Jamie’s dad’s feet. ‘Since when has that stopped her?’ Mr White reached down and reassured Dhoo the whippet by patting his head; the hound settled down again and returned to his doggy dreams. ‘I just hope she is not buying more clothes as she already has more stock than a Marks & Sparkes branch.’

  ‘Your lodgings any good, Dad?’

  ‘Mustn’t grumble. Like of lot of the B & Bs in St Leonard’s, it’s a bit run-down and the shared bathroom smells very musty, but they do serve a good full English breakfast. You eating well, son?’

  Jamie looked to the battlefield, but there was still no sign of the fighters appearing for the second session of the day. ‘Well enough, though it is all period stuff, which isn’t too bad really, but the cooking is all over open wood-fires and the smoke gets you.’ Jamie gave his father a serious look: ‘And, no – don’t start singing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” to me.’

  Mr White gave a chuckle. ‘I will let you off this time then. But you saying that – you do reek of wood smoke.’

  ‘Unavoidable. We cook over a wood fire; we sit around a wood fire at night to keep warm. The smell gets woven into your clothes and skin. Then, again, everyone smells of wood smoke so you don’t notice it.’

  ‘You do enjoy the camping don’t you? You could have stayed with us in the boarding house.’

  ‘Camping can be fun.’

  ‘As well as wet and cold?’

  ‘As well as wet and cold, though at least it has not been wet this time. October in England is not always the best time to be living outside in a camp. Did you ever go camping Dad?’

  ‘Only when I was in the Boys’ Brigade as a lad. It was on the Isle of Wight. We had proper catering, mind, done by professional cooks. All we had to do was prepare the food if we were on fatigues. The only one of our family that really liked living the outdoor life was my Uncle Albert.’

  ‘Him that got put away?’

  ‘The same. He was a funny old man; thought he lived in the past and enjoyed living rough in bivouacs he made in the hedgerows, even though he had a tied farm cottage to live in. I never understood why they couldn’t just leave him alone instead of putting him into mental asylums.’

  ‘They don’t do that these days.’

  ‘True, son; which is what worries your mother – the thought that Uncle Albert is on the loose somewhere and may one day turn up at our house looking for a bed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be a problem would it? I mean, going on what you have told me, he would be happy living at the bottom of the garden under the privet hedge.’

  Mr White drank the last of his cider and played with the empty plastic glass, not sure what to do with it. ‘It is not him sleeping in the garden that would be the problem; it would be feeding him. That and his habit of helping himself to other people’s property.’

  ‘Sounds like old Grimm: he does that.’ Jamie took his father’s empty drinking vessel and slid his own inside it and proffered the whole to Mr White. ‘Take it Dad – it is a bit sharp for me.’

  Mr White, who had been surreptitiously tapping the half empty packet of cigarettes concealed in the inside pocket of his coat whilst he wondered if he dared smoke in front of his son, seeing as he was supposed to have abandoned the “filthy habit” some years back, gladly took the offered drink as it would keep his mind off the cigarettes. ‘Thanks, son: I appreciate that. Anyway,’ he took a sip of the two-thirds-full glass, ‘talking of Grimm: have you seen him lately?’

  ‘Funnily enough, Dad, only yesterday. He turned up at our geteld – “tent”, to you – quite drunk.’

  ‘I seem to recall you saying he is often that way.’

  ‘Sometimes, but he seemed changed, drunker, older somehow, less amusing, more wordy. I don’t know; maybe I am older myself and it is me that has changed.’

  ‘You are just growing up, son – it happens to us all.’

  The clinking sound of chain-maille and the tramping of feet came from the ridge. ‘Here come the lads!’ called a man in Saxon garb with his arm in a sling.

  ‘More bruises and broken bits,’ muttered the lady next to him wearing a St John’s Ambulance Brigade uniform.

  ‘Just good fun, missus.’

  ‘That wasn’t what you said when we dressed your arm after this morning’s set-to. I seem to remember a lot of swearing, and words about getting your own back on “the Norman bastards” mixed in with it.’

  ‘Just good fun, missus,’ the man assured her. ‘We will be drinking with ‘em tonight and laughing about it all around the campfires.’

  ‘Then you will need us to apply burn cream after you fall into the fires?’

  ‘Not us missus; we may drink, but not to the “falley down drunk” stage; unlike some.’ The man then had the nerve to look at Mr White who had just finished the cider Jamie had given him.

  Mr White suddenly became aware that he was being watched; he edged to whisper in his son’s ear. ‘I think they may be greenies worried that I will just dump these empty glasses instead of carefully disposing of them,’ he hissed.

  ‘Better hurry and stick them in the wheelie bin by the cider-seller’s stall as they are starting to collect the bins.’ Jamie bent down and lifted Dhoo the whippet’s lead which was being held by his dad’s foot. Mr White lifted his foot off the lead and started off to dispose of the empty drink containers; Dhoo’s head dropped to the ground before he raised it with a hurt look in his eyes. Jamie patted his hound, then saw a glint of polished metal towards the bottom of the battlefield. ‘Hurry dad, the Normans are at last coming on the field. The battle will start soon.’

  Mr White quickly dumped his rubbish on the top of all the other discarded items in the over-full bin and came back to his son’s side. Dhoo shuffled on his chest and replaced his head on Mr White’s foot.

  As the Normans and their allies marshalled at the bottom of the field, the English army on the ridge formed into a three-ranked shield-wall. The man playing King Harold rode a white horse in front of the shield-wall, with mounted standard-bearers riding behind him; the left standard was the golden wyvern of Wessex whilst the right-hand banner was Harold’s personal banner of The Fighting Man. Much of what he was saying was carried away by the slight breeze, but indistinct responding calls from his men in En
glish, Danish and, surprisingly, Russian, occasionally drifted to the few spectators behind their rope barrier. King Harold stood in his stirrups: ‘Hrīeman god fore Harold, Ingaland ond sanct Eadmund!’

  ‘UT, UT, UT,’ the ranks shouted back, and started beating their shields, both round and kite shaped, with the butts of their spears and the pommels of their swords. King Harold held up his hand to acknowledge his men, and the chant changed to a shouted ‘A GODWINSON, A GODWINSON, A GODWINSON’.

  Down the hill the Normans started their own reply: ‘NORMANDY, NORMANDY, NORMANDY!’

  A wag in the English ranks shouted a reply: ‘NORMANDY MERDE!’. Others in the English line took it up and called to their Norman foes with a shield bang between each call: ‘NORMANDY MERDE’ – bang – ‘NORMANDY MERDE’ – bang – ‘NORMANDY MERDE!’

  In answer to the insulting chants, Norman infantry, preceded by a line of archers, moved up the hill. At the cry ‘Arrêt’, the Normans stopped their advance and the archers nocked arrows.

  At the call, ‘Incoming!’, the front row of the English shield-wall knelt, the second row leant forward and overlapped the bottoms of their shields over the tops of the shields belonging to the front rank, and those in the third rank put theirs over the tops of the second rank’s as a form of roof.

  ‘This could be dangerous,’ Mr White advised his son.

  ‘The arrows have blunt heads and fly like bricks and the bows are only thirty-pound draw weight,’ Jamie commented.

  ‘Even so … I mean didn’t King Harold get an arrow in his eye?’

  ‘Well actually there is some doubt about that and …’ Jamie cut his comments short as the Norman Captain of Archers called out, ‘Tirer!’, and the arrows flew towards the English ranks where the arrows bounced off the shields. Again the call ‘Tirer!’; again arrows flew to bounce off the shields. ‘Tirer!’ Following the last volley the call changed to ‘Rangs ouverts!’. The archers opened ranks and the Norman infantry passed through them and trudged up the hill.

  ‘UT, UT, UT!’

  The two walls of men smashed together and shields were shoved and spears were prodded. Long-hafted axes from the back ranks came over the heads of the English front rank and hooked onto Norman shields, pulling them away and exposing the Norman holding the shield to the English spearman facing him. Those who had taken hits fell to the ground. The English ranks closed and men from the rearmost ranks filled any gaps in the front rank. The clashing and banging continued with shouts and yells from the combatants until eventually the Normans, having lost many men and having made no break in the English shield-wall, fell back in some disarray.

  ‘UT, UT, UT, NORMANDY MERDE, NORMANDY MERDE, NORMANDY MERDE, UT, UT, UT!’

  Norman cavalry formed into conroi of ten horsemen and rode through gaps in the withdrawing infantry.

  ‘Rædehere!!!!’ The English’s overlapped shields and spears were held at an angle towards the oncoming horsemen, forcing them to keep their distance.

  It was then that a tall slim young man ran from the left flank of the English line. He wore no maille; rather, a flying, bright and shiny white cloak with its gold and silver embroidered edge glinting in the autumn sun. He wore bright blue trousers and had a red silk shirt that was shot through with gold. No helmet graced his head and his bobbed hair and long moustache was as bright a gold as the sun. In his hand was neither spear, nor sword, nor long axe, but just a plain wooden staff two hands taller than its wielder. In front of him Norman horsemen were leaning out of their saddles as they rode along the English shield-wall, hitting English spears with their own, trying to force a break in the spear hedge. The young man ran up behind the rearmost horse and gave it a smack on its rump with his staff. The horse sidled, and threw its rider. The young man gave a spin and what may have been a short dance before he chased along and repeated his actions on other horses. The Norman cavalry started to break up in confusion. The Captain of Cavalry rode uphill to the young man, who spun to face him. The young man held up a hand, and the Captain’s horse stopped, lowered its head, and then suddenly knelt. The Captain tipped forward out of his saddle and landed on his head. The young man ran forward, stepping over the fallen Norman horseman, and kissed the kneeling horse on its nose. The horse stood, galloped towards the cavalry, which was starting to reform, gave a high pitched neigh, and then plunged down the hill at full speed. The other horses followed it, ignoring the attempts of their riders to control them. The broken cavalry crashed through the ranks of archers and infantry that had started to again climb the hill, throwing all into confusion.

  ‘LIEGAĐ!’ King Harold yelled, and the English legged it down the hill at full tilt and swept all before them.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Jamie’s dad, who had taken the opportunity to have a sly smoke whilst his son was occupied watching the battle. ‘Why didn’t they do that in 1066?’

  ‘If only,’ Jamie sighed. ‘But this is only playing and then it was for real with lots more Norman cavalry and no health and safety regulations. In reality, infantry threatened by cavalry should never, ever, expose itself as they would get cut to pieces. Also, they had no young man willing to run out and start slapping horses.’

  ‘That was a rather splendid trick was it not, especially the power to persuade the Captain’s horse to shew its true loyalty to the one who commands all horses.’ The old man, with a threadbare white blanket hung on his shoulders like a cloak, patched blue tracksuit bottoms and beer- and food-stained red T-shirt commented as he passed the pair on his way down the hill to join the victorious English army and their defeated Norman foes.

  Jamie turned to watch him: ‘Hi Grimm,’ he called out.

  ‘Hi Uncle Albert,’ Mr White called out.

  ‘“Uncle Albert”?’ Jamie asked his dad.

  ‘“Grimm”?’ Mr White asked his son.

  The old man carried on without acknowledging the greetings, and at his heels ran two lean grey dogs that may have been Alsatians, or may have been big huskies.